Apr. 30th, 2017

tielle_mortevus: (Default)
[personal profile] tielle_mortevus
Rubbing her throbbing head, Tielle slowly opens here eyes to find herself slumped against the wall of a dark alley. The last thing she remembered was being thrown into a dark portal while doing battle with Lillianus, a demoness driven mad with the lust for vengeance against her family. Letting out a groan, she dusted off her black silk dress, catching her balance against the wall as she tried to stand.

"Next time I'll have her head on a pike... but for now I have more pressing matters to attend to... namely figuring out where I am now..."

She winced in pain, a burning sensation searing her shoulder as a ray of sunlight broke through the shadows of the dark alley. She quickly pressed her body against the wall, doing her best to stay in the shadows. Noticing a small door to her left, she slipped inside.

She struggled to keep her balance as she entered what appeared to be a dimly lit cafe. Glad to be indoors and out of the sun, she took a seat at a small table in the corner of the room to rest her weary body, as well as figure out her next course of action.
hawkofmay: (out and about)
[personal profile] hawkofmay
The monastery by the cliffs has been abandoned for decades, crumbling away in an austere and usually silent location. Its newest and sole occupant seems to be trying to chase away the eerie atmosphere single handedly, having filled the place for days with the sounds of scuffing feet, blades thudding into defenseless trees and grunts of effort.

Gwalchmei falters in the familiar sword drill at the exact moment the sun disappears below the horizon. The light has yet to fade much but he feels its loss creeping that much closer, as surely as he feels the sword in his hand or the ground beneath his feet.

Alone as he is he allows himself the weakness of stopping and lowering his sword and shield, unable to hold back the shudder that racks his frame. He can feel the tiredness burning through his limbs now, far more sharply than he could before and while a more sensible man would take that as a sign to stop and rest, this exhaustion is exactly what he has exiled himself all the way out here to beat. He has to be strong enough at all times of day if he is to lead, that much has been made painfully clear to him of late.

With a cry of frustration he lifts his arms again, so much heavier than just moments before, and charges the gap between two small trees, slicing at one with blade covertly lining the edge of his shield and crossing one foot in front of the other whirls sharply to strike at the other tree. Only to find his sword tugged from his grip by some unseen force to clatter to the ground some distance away from him. In what appears to be a courtyard full of chairs. In bright mid afternoon sunlight.

"How is this possible?"
shardofwinter: (Side eyes)
[personal profile] shardofwinter
Not everyone who frequents the Nexus was unfortunate enough to be caught up in Khan's attack. Reynard had ended Winter in his own world and engaged in his usual annual seclusion that, as it always did, ended once he had run out of alcohol. The sight of an obliterated Nexus was not the pub crawling paradise he'd remembered it as. It seems that he's missed the action and stumbled into the aftermath. People are tired, disoriented, upset and in shock, or powering through their emotions by helping organise everyone else. Without much of a thought, Reynard falls into a group that is already working to set everything right again. Or as right as things can be set. As it turns out, an atmosphere of destruction and tragedy does wonders for a Spring-sick Winter spirit. 

He looks as awful as he feels, and far more sober than he'd like to be. He's forgone his coat, but kept his gloves on and a makeshift mask for the work at hand. Reynard has volunteered for the grim task of working with the dead. In a shaded area he helps move bodies to rest side by side, covered in shrouds that have started to vary in colour as they run through their supplies. These are the ones who have not, or cannot, be identified. 

It's been a long day, and it's been hard graft, and everything feels hotter than it is, especially with the cloth around his face. Reynard takes his gloves off, leans against the edge of a table, and pulls away the mask, revealing an unkempt beard. "What would you like to happen at your funeral?"

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